"The quarry was given up, I suppose, because it was worked out?" said Arminell.
"Why did Providence allow it to be worked out so soon? Why wasn't the lime made to run ten feet deeper, three feet, one foot would have done it to keep my father alive over my birth, and so saved my mother's life and made me a happy woman?"
"And when your poor mother died?"
"Then it was bad for poor me. I was left an orphan child and was brought up by my uncle, who was a local preacher. He wasn't over-pleased at being saddled wi' me to keep. He served me bad, and didn't give me enough to eat. Once he gave me a cruel beating because I wouldn't say, 'Forgive us our trespasses,' for, said I, 'Heaven has trespassed against me, not I against Heaven.' Why was there not another foot or eighteen inches more lime created when it was made, so that my father and mother might have lived, and I had a home and not been given over to uncle? What I said then, I say now"—all Patience's fierceness rushed into her eyes. "Answer me. Have I been fairly used?" She extended her arms, and held her hands open, appealing to Arminell for her judgment.
"And then?" asked the girl, after a long silence, during which nothing was heard but the pecking of the raven at the bars.
"And then my uncle bade me unsay my words, but I would not. Then he swore he would thrash me every day till I asked forgiveness. So it came about."
"What came about?"
"That I was sent to prison."
"Not for profanity! for what?"
"For setting fire to his house."
"You——?"
"Yes, finish the question. Yes, I did; and so I was sent to prison."
